


Quartered Safe Out Here

by Zelos



Series: A Splintered Tomorrow [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Community: avengerkink, Friendship, Gen, Learning on the job, Soldiers, Teaching, Team, Team Bonding, Team Dynamics, Teamwork, War, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 17:32:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zelos/pseuds/Zelos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Ye of little faith.”  Steve was feeling...not quite <i>defensive</i>, but a little unappreciated, even though the exaggerated ribbing was, in the end, true.  “I got you guys out.  By <i>myself</i>, with what Phillips referred to as a garbage-can lid.  I can learn on the job.”</p><p>Some things have to be taught.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quartered Safe Out Here

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a [prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/11264.html?thread=27814912#t27814912) on avengerkink:
> 
> So in the movie, the Project Rebirth selection process lasts a week, he becomes a super-soldier, and then he is transferred to the USO, and a while later he frees the POWs and becomes a soldier in the truest sense. And from there he goes on to being a legendary soldier fit to lead the Avengers, right?
> 
> Thing is, as he was too valuable to risk getting killed, the Army probably skimped on his training, because they didn't want any training accidents taking away their only super-soldier.
> 
> See he managed to rescue the POW by what little he learned/picked up, natural talent, and some luck. What the Commandos learn that the man who saved their lives is undertrained and about to lead them into battle once more... So they train him themselves.
> 
> Give me each of the commandos imparting their specialties and experience onto Steve, who is smart as a whip and soaks all that stuff up in record time.

“Wait, _what?_ ” Dugan paused mid-swallow, choked, and nearly spat his mouthful of water all over Morita. “Our captain, fearless leader, tactician extraordinaire, was a – ”

“Chorus girl,” Bucky supplied, insufferable smirk firmly in place. “What, the costume didn't tip you off?”

Steve shot Bucky a betrayed look and unsubtly flipped him off.

“All due respect, Captain,” Falsworth put in, although he looked more sly than respectful at the moment, “tank-stopping strength aside, do you...ah...”

“Hey, look, I went through Basic just like everybody else,” Steve protested. “And believe me, I can run laps around any of you.” Granted, post-serum. “Take me up on it if you dare.”

“But – combat experience? Hands-on munitions practice? Wilderness survival?” Dugan was gesticulating wildly now. “Anything other than that – admittedly top-notch – improvisation of yours?”

“Ah...”

“ _Mon Dieu_ ,” Dernier pronounced, staring heavenward, and Steve didn't need Jones to translate for that.

“Ye of little faith.” Steve was feeling...not quite _defensive_ , but a little unappreciated, even though the exaggerated ribbing was, in the end, true. “I got you guys out. By _myself_ , with what Phillips referred to as a garbage-can lid. I can learn on the job.”

Jones rolled his eyes, mouthed 'God Almighty', and slapped Steve hard on the shoulder. “Believe me, Captain, you better.”

 

The suit would not stop bullets; Howard had been very clear on that. That was the shield's job; moreover, it was _Steve's job_ to be careful so that he _wouldn't get shot_.

Well, so much for _that_.

“Least it wasn't a HYDRA weapon,” Dugan muttered somewhere above him. Steve hissed as the knife dug a little too deep, scoring skin and flesh; Bucky cursed an apology, “ _Goddamn_ Stark and his _goddamn suit –_ ”

“They might come back,” Steve gritted out uselessly, vision spotting in the corners.

“Shoot 'em if they do.” Falsworth's posh British accent only punctuated the words, for how easily he said them; Steve refrained from commenting on how well that worked the _first_ time around, shut his eyes instead and tried to breathe.

“Hey, no sleeping, Cap, eyes on me.” Morita's scrubbing his hands and cleaning the forceps, nudged Steve hard with his elbow.

“The hell?! He just got _shot!_ ” Bucky was yelling, probably would've continued doing so, but the offending pant leg he was working loose finally came free with a dull _rip_ ; Steve jerked and _howled_.

“Might have to do this again sometime,” Morita replied evenly, more to Steve than Bucky. He tightened the tourniquet again and mopped the wounded leg, rotating it for a better look. “USO didn't let you practice much, did they?”

Bucky looked like he wanted to punch him. Or throw up. Steve reached for his sleeve, missed; Bucky snagged his hand, squeezed it tight.

“C'mon, Rogers, don't you – damn it, Jim, _morphine_ , give him some goddamned – ”

“ _No_ ,” Steve forced out; hazy faces flickered above him, livid-white. “Won't – won't work. Stark tried.”

“ _Tried?_ ” Morita repeated sharply, as faces blanched and eyes widened around him; a heartbeat's pause, and he shook his head, horror and suspicion traded for steel. “Fine. Dugan, Barnes, hold him – Dernier, _water_. You stay with me, Cap – and remember, iodine _around_ the wound, not in the wound itself...”

Steve hissed through clenched teeth, fingers digging rivets into the ground as Morita dug into flesh and scraped against bone. Morita's talking steadily about what he was doing and things you'd do different if it hadn't been a through-and-through or if this wasn't a super soldier; Steve tried to listen, tried to watch, tried his damnedest not to scream.

“...there,” Morita said, dropping the armour-slivers to the ground. Steve swayed where he sat, would've toppled had Bucky not been holding him up. “Got all that, Cap?”

“ _Jim_ ,” Bucky growled, white to the lips.

Morita smiled sardonically and went back to the dressings. Steve forced himself to watch as he shook out the sulfanilamide, packed snow against the leg to slow the bleeding and dull the pain.

“You heal fast, though, right, Rogers?” Jones' voice sounded at once subdued and panicked.

“Some...what.”

“Breathe, Rogers,” Morita, a vicegrip on his shoulder, looked like he was trying to talk Steve back from the brink. “Look at me. _Breathe!_ ”

Steve shook his head – tried, anyway. “'m fine.” Unconvincing, but he _was_ , shock and blood loss be damned. There was a macabre map in the snow drawn with his blood during the worst war the world's ever seen and he'd _still_ never felt so far from death; Steve's had too many doctors in his life, from the ones that cared for his sickly self to Howard taking notes in his lab and he'd take this ragtag bunch over them _all._

“Pickup in 40, Steve. Just hold on,” Bucky said behind him; Steve's eyes drifted closed, and there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

 

“I see you didn't take any of my lessons to heart.”

Steve looked up from his inspection of his shield at Bucky, mouth quirking into a smile. “Which one? The womanizing, thieving, posturing, or the – ”

“Hey, I did not _posture_. Never needed to. Not my fault they flocked to me.” The mock affront slid off Bucky's face after a moment; he stared at Steve, eyes serious. “I was talking about your fighting, Steve. Your form is shit.”

Steve frowned. “What's the problem?” It was greatly improved from before; he could actually throw a punch now. Despite Bucky's efforts the six-week training regimen he put Steve through had done nothing to improve Steve's fitness or chances for enlistment, and he'd never have made it to the front if it hadn't been for Dr. Erskrine. “I hit them, they stay down.”

“Except when they _don't_.” Bucky was uncharacteristically fierce, coming right up into Steve's face. “I watch you, Steve – you hit them like you're back at home, scrapping in the alleyways, elbows everywhere and empty swings. Yeah, you can rip a hatch off a tank and generally when they drop, they don't get back up, but this ain't home – if they're not _out_ when you drop 'em, they'll come back, and not with a stick.”

“Jesus, Buck – I can bend their guns like putty, I don't need to go brutalizing – ”

“Not saying you should,” Bucky interrupted, and when did his eyes turn so grim and dark? “I'm saying make your hits _count_. Throat. Eyes. Crotch. Or hit them _properly_ , wherever you hit. You rely way too much on that damn potion and yeah, you can bench cars, so you never even _check_ that you actually broke their spine or snapped their leg or if you just grazed them, and one of these days a Kraut's just gonna throw a frag after you because you weren't careful and you didn't _care_.”

“...I'm not going to _brutalize_ them.” Steve tightened his hold on his shield, glared into Bucky's eyes. “What do you want me to do, Buck? Smash their heads in with the shield?”

“Damn it, _no!_ ” Bucky all but snarled. “Just – actually _try_. Actually _watch_ your surroundings, instead of assuming it looks right. Put your body into the swing, if you throw a fist. Don't half-ass it. I'll cover your back, you know I will, but I might miss or there might be more than one and I can't cover you all the time. Damn it Rogers, this is _war_ ; pulling your punches ain't _noble_. At best, they suffer more, don't die clean. At worst, they'll shoot you in the back.” He kicked at Steve's shield. “Your fancy tin can only works if you point it the right way.”

Steve swallowed, temper fading. “Bucky...”

“Promise me,” Bucky rounded on him, voice a rough growl. “We can't – if anything, _anything_ happens, short of a round to the head, we can't even...make you go easy.”

Steve couldn't speak for a moment, staring wide-eyed at Bucky; Bucky glared back at him, every muscle taut, something fierce and desperate behind dark eyes.

Steve finally nodded, once. Bucky flicked his gaze away, angry and afraid.

A long, cloying silence later, Steve tried, with a pathetic attempt at levity: “Maybe you should refresh my swing again.”

Bucky rounded on him again, incredulity chasing temper; temper melted away at sincerity, at the half-smile sliding off Steve's face.

“God knows you need the help,” he muttered, and Steve didn't know who was right.

 

If anyone found the boxing lessons between Sergeant Barnes and Captain Rogers comical – and some must have, considering the latter benched _cars_ – no one commented.

 _War is hell_. It didn't need to be said.

 

“Wo...ist...” The consonants tripped over themselves on his tongue, and Steve fought the urge to curse. “Wash?”

“Wache,” Jones corrected absently, looking distastefully at the holes in a pair of socks. “Say it slower: _voh-ist_. Wo ist die wache.”

Steve frowned doubtfully. “Is this actually going to work?”

Jones sighed that patient, long-suffering sigh he'd perfected in the last two days. “Not if you ask me that every five minutes. We've been _over_ this, Cap. Espionage. Subterfuge. You looking like a poster boy for the Aryan cause lends a lot of potential for subtle gathering of information, the storming HYDRA's keeps notwithstanding.”

“I'm not going to learn German in a week,” Steve pointed out – entirely reasonably, he felt. “Or even in a month. Especially when the teacher has only had _three semesters_ of lessons before he went off chasing dames.”

“You ain't writing a speech,” Jones shot back. “You sneak in, look confused, and when someone yells at you and point somewhere you mutter apologies and follow. Look around, don't get caught, sneak out. I just don't want you to yell 'die!' when you mean 'yes sir', all right?”

Steve sighed an equally long-suffering sigh and picked up his notes again. “You're bloody mad is what you are.”

“Put that massive new brain of yours to use. God knows you ought to know how to do more than just kick in the door. And try not to righteously punch anyone, no matter how much they deserve it.”

“Hey,” Steve protested, “I can do subtle!”

The withering look Jones levelled at him would've halted half the 107th. “Your idea of subtle was to parachute down on HYDRA's base and crash through their door. All due respect, Captain, _you don't know subtle._ ”

“ _Verpiss dich_ ,” Steve told him cheerfully (pronunciation be damned); Jones laughed and flipped him off.

 

“We should stop,” Dugan said.

Steve turned back, frowning slightly. “Why? We've only got...” a quick map check, “40 more miles to march.” He blithely ignored the squad's long faces at his choice of 'only'. “I'd like to get out of occupied territory as soon as possible.”

“See those clouds?”

Steve hadn't; he'd been far more focused with what was on the ground. “They're white?”

“They were far thinner an hour ago,” Dugan said evenly. “Lower, too.” He pointed at the treetops, the meager leaves fluttering in the winds. “Wind's bringing it right at us.”

“Storm?” Steve followed his gaze, frown darkening. “I don't smell rain.”

“Too cold, not humid enough. You might later, though.” Dugan set down his pack. “But it'll catch us before we get back. Fluff clouds piling thicker and taller like that – it'll be on us within the day.”

“How bad?” They still just look white to him. He made a mental note to ply Dugan for details on cloud-reading later.

“Bad enough. At least it'll keep the Krauts home...probably.” Dugan read his frustration, shook his head. “Weather boys are wrong nine times out of ten, Cap. You have to read what's in front of you, and plan for _that_ , not their lofty three-weeks ahead. And you're good at improvisin', aren't you?”

Steve surveyed their surroundings: a half-logged forest about 10 miles out from one of the occupied cities – far too close for comfort, and even an animal would be hard-pressed to hide. “Tents?”

“Next to useless. No, we'll be doing a little more work for this.” Dugan flashed a small smile, white teeth underneath sooty mustache. “So, does the chorus girl know how to make a shelter?”

 

Dernier was right up in Steve's face, spat a rapid-fire string of French and looking like he was about to deck his captain.

“You could've _told_ us,” Jones helpfully translated, voice just on the side of sour. There was a collective irate murmur of agreement.

“Sorry,” Steve mumbled faintly. “Just...”

“Just _what_ , Steve?” Bucky snapped, shoving Dernier aside. He might've actually started shaking him if Steve wasn't currently propped up against a tree. “Just a minor detail? Don't worry, I'm the super soldier? The goddamn heroic tank who can take bullets but _can't go without water for a day? Starves to death_ in _two weeks?!_ You didn't think that was important enough to tell us when we're out on _field rations?!_ ”

“I took extra,” Steve tried halfheartedly.

“Lot of good that did,” Falsworth said coolly, gesturing at the meager supplies they'd managed to escape with from the ambush.

“Shut up, Cap,” Morita advised, shoving another (Dugan's) canteen into Steve's face before Steve could reply.

Dernier snarled another volley of scathing French before turning to the supplies, pulling out one pack and rapidly setting out its contents. “ _Capitaine!_ ” Steve snapped to attention, and Dernier began pointing at each item and rattling them off, sparing withering glares between each.

“Snare wire. Fishing kit. Water purification tablets. Signalling mirror,” Jones duly recited. “Oh, he thinks you're an idiot.”

“Him and the rest of us,” Dugan grumbled.

“Anyway,” Jones cut through Steve; Dernier started speaking again, less angry and more instructive, Jones' translation a half-second behind. “Listen up, since you'll need this the most out of all of us. Starting with water sources: never, ever eat snow or ice without melting first...”

 

“Time,” Steve said.

Falsworth checked his watch, tsked through his teeth. “Two seconds off, Captain.”

“Early or late?” He'd been late last time.

“Early. Better than being late, I suppose, but unacceptable nonetheless.” Falsworth levelled a steady look at Steve. “You cannot cheat yourself of the meager seconds you do have.”

“I know.” Too slow, and a bomb'd go off in your face; too fast, and you'd get killed anyway – so much of combat was split-second decisions and minutiae timings, of when to hide where and not be seen, of only getting that one chance to jump onto that tank/fire off that snipe/sneak past the guards, and a split second too early or too late would mean discovery, or a mistake, or a slipped step – death, whichever way.

“You only get 15 seconds tomorrow,” Falsworth reminded him. “No more, no less. And you must be at _least_ 60 feet away from ground zero by then.”

“Yeah. I know.” Technically the fuse was slated for 20, but only fools would take that at face value (even if they were Stark munitions). For all he was a super soldier _he'd_ not survive being blown apart either, especially not with explosives meant to take down _tanks_.

Steve hung his head, briefly ashamed; after a moment, he looked back up, mouth tight. “Again. I'll get it this time.”

Falsworth studied him, shook his head. “Don't worry. I will do it tomorrow.”

Steve swallowed. It shouldn't feel like failure. “You sure?”

“It wouldn't be my first time, Captain.”

“When was?” Steve blurted, then blanched slightly. “Sorry, I didn't mean – ”

“...it's all right,” Falsworth waved him off, far less airily than he probably intended. A long pause, then he sat down beside Steve, flashing a faint smile that didn't reach his eyes.

“...14 months ago,” he finally said, counting on his fingers. “The man before me...miscounted.”

A year. And now he was teaching Steve bomb fuses and how to jury-rig Composition B. “Fast learner.”

Falsworth's smile turned wan. “Pick it up as you go along, Captain. I assure you, I did not spend my crib years learning the lead times of Amatol and H6. But...we have been fighting this war long before you arrived.”

An even longer silence, then he picked up the watch again, shook off the ghosts and visibly pulling himself together. “Again, Captain.” His voice cracked, just a little.

 _One,_ Steve counted in his head. _Two..._

 

 _Three, four, five..._ Falsworth tumbled over the ridge, bounced, rolled into the middle of the road. _Six, seven, eight..._

The men beside him rustled, all but holding breaths. Steve's heart hammered in his chest, counting time. (Or maybe that was the heartbeats around him, and yes, he could hear them too.)

 _Nine...ten..._ The tank rumbled over the human ball, and Steve let out a low hiss; there was _not_ a geyser of blood, so he was okay, he was _okay_ –

“Time,” he whispered as Falsworth rolled to his feet. A hell pyre erupted behind the man, flame and heat and shrapnel rain, and Steve knew it had been _exactly_ 15 seconds.

 

“They taught you how to shoot during Basic, didn't they, Captain?”

“They did,” Steve allowed, with raised eyebrows and a small smile. “That said, my time in Basic was cut a little...short.” Barely had time for the physical, in fact.

Peggy's own smile broadened slightly as she inclined her head: _touch_ _é_.

“Besides which,” Steve continued, surveying the multitude of holes in his paper target, “I think I've done pretty well for myself, considering.” With eyesight like a hawk's and his ridiculously enhanced body, it had only taken him a few shots to acclimate to the ballistics and compensate for the recoil, and then it was bull's eye almost every time, every weapon, as instinctive and natural to use as his shield.

“The Krauts won't just _stand there_ for you to shoot.” Peggy circled around and smiled from behind his target, an arch challenge on carmine lips.

“I've shot practice targets while moving,” Steve countered.

“Were they shooting back?”

“Well...”

Peggy flung an item at him with a snap of her wrist. “Now they will.”

Steve snatched the revolver out of the air with barely a glance, all attention on Peggy. “Wait – are you _mad_ , this is – ”

“Wax bullets, Captain,” she replied, in that coolly accented voice that made everything sound reasonable. “Compliments of Stark. Will sting a bit, but non-lethal.”

“Depends on _where_ you hit,” Steve shot back, hand tightening uneasily around the modified revolver. “This is a terrible idea – what if we miss?”

Peggy's unconcerned chambering of the round sounded too loud to Steve's ears, despite the openness of the range. “Don't.”

“I'll beat the pants – ah, well, I'll beat you,” Steve warned, half-desperately. “I mean, I have an unfair advantage here, don't I?”

The report from Peggy's gun was barely even a split-second of warning before the hot burn slammed into his thigh.

 

Howard Stark taught him how to fly.

“Stark, I joined the _army_ ,” Steve said, when Howard dragged him over to the small civilian plane that had dropped him on the heads of the HYDRA base during the rescue of the 107th. (God, that seemed like so long ago.) And besides, they both had much more important things nowadays to occupy their time with, didn't they, especially so close to the beginning of the end?

Steve'd meant it as a joke, but Howard wasn't smiling – strange, for a man who'd made a habit of laughing in the face of death.

“You're going to infiltrate a _warship_.” There were dark circles around Howard's eyes and lines in his face; he looked exhausted and worried and worn. “If something goes wrong, you'll have to get yourself out. I don't expect you to tell a piston engine from a turbine version, and doubtless there'll be a lot of differences with an Axis warship of that size, but know the basics, at least.”

 _Nothing's going to go wrong_ , Steve wanted to say, but that'd be a bald-faced lie, because there was a damn good chance he wouldn't come back from this. Platitudes were useless in the face of a man who knew the maths better than he; Steve swallowed the words and instead managed a quiet “Okay.”

They circled over friendly airspace at varying altitudes; Steve wasn't an engineer but he'd always been a quick learner, serum notwithstanding, and Howard was a surprisingly patient (and obviously competent) teacher. Six hours of training later Steve could name every indicator on the deck, reel of the landing/takeoff sequence in his sleep, and had a passable knowledge of the five most common signs of engine failure, their respective causes, and appropriate corrective procedures.

“You're doing well,” and Howard was not a man effusive with his praise so it must be worth something. “You're the fastest learner I've ever seen. I'm glad the serum did more than just give you 100 pounds.”

“Who taught you to fly, Howard?" Steve asked, in the midst of calling in to Control to obtain landing clearance.

“Self-taught.” Howard looked down at him, the critical gaze of the teacher softening to something quieter, less exuberant and more true joy. There was a small smile on his face. “Always loved the skies.”

“Surprised you're so...good at it, when you're underground as much as you are.”

“Can't take the sky from me.”

Steve wondered what he had that the war couldn't take from him. Not a hell of a lot, now that Bucky –

He forced himself not to think about it, and the trembling steel monster under his hands was more than enough to distract him. The landing itself was rather bumpy – Howard sported a painful looking goose-egg at the end of it, though he waved off Steve's apologies – but considering he'd only had six hours in the cockpit and the plane was still in one piece and no one had _died_ Steve thought he did pretty well.

“Same time tomorrow, Rogers,” Howard said, dabbing carefully at his head, but his expression was easy and kind and worlds lighter than the one he wore hours ago. “We'll make a captain of you yet.”

 

Later, when Steve watched the endless horizon at the helm of the warship that would become his coffin, an ironic thought flashed in his head, wry and rueful and punctuated by Peggy's voice in the background: _Damn it, Stark, why are you always right?_

He wanted to tell Peggy that he'd been looking forward to that dance, that she and Howard could go for fondue, tell her to look after the boys for him, they'd already lost two _–_

_Sorry, Howard; I'll never be that captain you knew –_

But his watery grave swallowed his words and Steve let terror and peace and resignation wash over him, robin's egg blue like the cloudless sky.

**Author's Note:**

> \- The first aid kit contents were pulled from [this site](http://med-dept.com/application.php), listing all the things available for a field-kit. Survival tips (appropriately handwaved) were mostly from [this site](http://www.wilderness-survival.net); weather prediction from clouds (however little of it made it into the final draft) was from [here.](http://www.instructables.com/id/Predicting-Weather-with-Clouds/)
> 
> \- Wax bullets were around since the early 1900s, although I don't think they were a standard part of military training. (But then again, neither was the serum.)
> 
> \- If I remember the movie correctly, the warship was on a crash course to the mainland...and for Steve to have changed its course to the ocean on a foreign plane probably written all in German...well, I think he has some experience, here. :)


End file.
